


viscum album (santalaceae)

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hufflepuff Grantaire, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slytherin Enjolras, Smitten Enjolras, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever had bewitched the mistletoe to follow him around the halls was going to regret it.</p>
<p>Not only was it a painful reminder of who he wasn’t kissing, but the very presence of it made Grantaire’s skin crawl.</p>
<p>Logically he knows that he should just inform Madam Sprout or Professor McGonagall, but it already feels like a brand around his neck, like a sign pointing down to him in the hallways, telling everyone what he is. And it would be far worse to go running off in fear to a teacher over a little piece of determined plant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	viscum album (santalaceae)

**Author's Note:**

> I only intended to post a little drabble to my fanfic tumblr, but then it spiraled out of control and was deemed long enough to publish over here. I claim no great knowledge of Harry Potter, but I am very much in favour of the trope of Slytherin Enjolras & (werewolf) Hufflepuff Grantaire.
> 
> So, enjoy.

Whoever had bewitched the mistletoe to follow him around the halls was going to regret it.

Not only was it a painful reminder of who he wasn’t kissing, but the very presence of it made Grantaire’s skin crawl.

Logically he knows that he should just inform Madam Sprout or Professor McGonagall, but it already feels like a brand around his neck, like a sign pointing down to him in the hallways, telling everyone what he is. And it would be far worse to go running off in fear to a teacher over a little piece of determined plant.

But Grantaire isn’t stupid, and maybe he is right to be a little scared.

Because that innocent and beautifully hanging mistletoe can only mean one thing; that someone knows about him. That not only does someone know, but they’ve decided to taunt him, to threaten him because if they know that he’s not just a second rate Hufflepuff halfblood, but a second rate Hufflepuff halfblood werewolf, then they also know that mistletoe is dangerous to werewolves. All students third year and above know that from Deference Against The Dark Arts, but Grantaire had learnt the dark way.

He’d accidentally knocked down the sprig of green and white shrubbery that his muggle mother had hung in the doorframe when he’d been eight. The blisters hadn’t gone down for days where the berries had made contact with his skin, his eyes were puffy and swollen and his hands shaking after only brushing contact. His mother had panicked, and his father had wordlessly taken the mistletoe and burnt it with only a look. The smoke had got stuck in Grantaire’s throat, and his voice was hoarse for weeks.

As the textbooks stated in their clinical way, while mistletoe was not nearly as potent or immediately affective as the application of silver to bare werewolf skin, it was still unpleasant and highly irritating, and could with enough exposure be fatal. So being followed around the halls by what is essentially one massive allergic reaction for the past three days is really started to grate on Grantaire.

The mistletoe stays ten paces behind Grantaire as he winds his way to the Great Hall, and the handful of students who see him are far too caught up in their own sad lives – anyone spending Christmas at school has to be pretty pathetic, and Grantaire is counting himself very firmly in that group – to pay attention to the floating Christmas décor. In the best case scenario they probably think that he’s done it to himself to get one of the muggleborns to kiss him. Grantaire doesn’t want any of the muggleborns to kiss him.

Enjolras looks startled when Grantaire throws himself into the empty seat next to him at breakfast – most of the Great Hall is empty, with the few remaining students intermingling across house tables, most in pyjamas and dressing gowns rather than robes – but he looks up from his eggs and pumpkin juice to smile warmly, and for a moment Grantaire forgets about the threat waiting for him by the door.

Enjolras had elected to remain at school over the break to stay away from his toxic family house, although Grantaire noted that Enjolras had only announced this apathy for spending time with his, granted, very elitist family, after Grantaire had loudly brushed aside Joly and Bossuet’s concerns about him being all by himself over Christmas. He’d pushed that thought away. There had been a lot of thought regarding Enjolras that Grantaire had pushed away recently. Especially when he caught Enjolras’ eyes on him, with a certain look in his eyes. 

Enjolras leans a little into his sides as Grantaire slides into a more comfortable sitting position, reaching and grabbing one of the odd little pastries that Enjolras had piled to the side of his plate. Enjolras tusked, but didn’t slap Grantaire’s hand away.

If there’s anyone that Grantaire is going to trust with this threat, then it’s Enjolras. Enjolras might not have always liked him, and the feeling was mutual, but Grantaire’s always trusted him, always trusted the strange and beautiful Slytherin boy, who had never addressed the rumours that he wasn’t fully human. Not that Grantaire had any right to judge. 

“Library?”

He’s aiming for casual, but it comes out sort of strained, like he was trying to contain a cough at the same time. That just makes him think of mistletoe smoke.

Enjolras’ eyebrows rise, smirk brushing across his face, and Grantaire can hear the  _what, you?_  in the gesture.  But even as his eyes are good naturedly mocking Grantaire , he’s folding up the newspaper to his left, taking up his wand, and waiting for Grantaire to lead the way.

“There won’t be many people there, I just need to say something, show you something.”

Enjolras frowns, but slows down, allowing Grantaire to keep pace beside him.

“You can tell me anything, you can tell any of us anything Grantaire, you know this.” 

He doesn’t, it had taken years to trust them all. He knows that this is what Enjolras is referring to, to the  _big secret_  which had formed the basis of his trust issues for years. Of course Marius knew, Marius had known for years. He’d needed someone in his house to make excuses for him in class, and Marius was easy to trust. Combeferre had worked it out in their fourth year, hadn’t realised that he was thinking about it until he’d made the connection and promised not to tell anyone else until Grantaire was ready. And Enjolras, Enjolras had meekly come to him, back in fifth year, when he was in the hospital wing. He’d overexerted himself the night before, and not even the transformation from monster to man could rectify it, so he’d been kept in observation by an unflustered Madame Pomfery until Enjolras had walked in. They’d fought, the night before, like they hadn’t done for weeks, and Grantaire had stormed out of the room, still angry when he felt the first pull of the moon, and despite not knowing any of that, Enjolras had come to find him, to apologise. And Grantaire had told the truth.

But still he comes.

And the mistletoe follows them.

Enjolras’ eyes never flicker to the drifting foliage, and he can’t decide whether Enjolras is enraptured by Grantaire’s wit or just obvious to everything beyond his immediate sphere of interest. That Grantaire is currently making up the sphere makes him smile, despite himself. 

The mistletoe hasn’t followed him into the library before, but now it hangs awkwardly over the table that they’ve perched at; Enjolras in a chair and Grantaire having pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the table top.

“So,” it seems redundant to point up towards the mistletoe, but he does anyway, waiting for Enjorlas’ pale eyes to flick up to it briefly before settling back onto his face. “I think someone knows.” 

Enjolras’ tongue darts out to wet his lip, and it’s like a silencing charm has just fallen over the entire library.

“It’s been happening for a few days now, just following me around the hallways, it’s never come with me into specific rooms before. I can’t enchant it down because I can’t risk touching it, and I didn’t want to worry anyone, well, apart from you there’s no one to worry. But someone has to have worked out about the…  _problem_ , because it’s a threat, right? What else could it be?” 

The blush has been steadily rising up Enjolras’ face. There might be very literal sparks coming off his hair, and real steam emanating out his ears, Grantaire can’t tell because Enjolras waves a hand in front of his face as he stands up, as though to clear the air, and he looks more flustered than the time Feuilly had apparated next to him in Hogsmead.

“Oh god, I didn’t even think.”

There is the inkling of something in Grantaire’s mind, but he’s too realistic to let it burn into something like hope. Enjorlas must have had a conversation with someone about the properties of mistletoe and mentioned werewolves, as opposed to anything else.

The mistletoe is hanging almost directly between them now, and Grantaire has reached to pull his wand out of his hair – it’s as good as anything else for keeping his unruly curls from his eyes – to twirl across his fingers, in case it comes closer.

“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire would laugh, if Enjolras didn’t look so contrite. He’s looking at Grantaire’s knees as opposed to his face, and nothing like the confident Slytherin that Grantaire knows him to be. He almost wants to comfort him, which is ridiculous, because Enjolras has never needed anything from him.

“I was reading up on muggle culture, you’re half-blood yeah, on your mum’s side, and I thought it might be romantic.”

And then the world shifts into realignment.

“You wanted me to kiss you? You could just ask you know, since we’re…”

Grantaire runs out of words and instead makes a shrugging gesture, and awkward hunched jazz hands, as though that works to define the line between friendship and  _something_  that they’ve been walking for these last two months. Enjolras has been smiling at him more, looking genuinely pleased to see him as opposed to purely tolerant of his presence, and Grantaire has been aware of Enjolras watching him, when he hasn’t been surreptitiously watching him. He’d been happy, not just with Enjolras and in the presence of their friends, but in an of himself, even in the days leading up to the full moon, and sometimes he found himself grinning despite everything. And Enjolras would hug him, how he’d hug Combeferre and Courfeyrac, long and genuine as though his presence meant something  _more_. Grantaire hadn’t sat down and catalogued it before, preferring to let it slide over him, as all things did. But taken in isolation…

“… Yeah, anyway, rather than try and poison me.”

Enjolras stops pacing. He’s facing Grantaire, only a floor away from the table, and the mistletoe sways between them as though shaken by an invisible wind, he’s scowling as he snatches it out of the air, almost angrily, and that’s not fair-Grantaire had only been teasing him, it’s what friends did and it’s not  _his_  fault that he’s allergic to mistletoe.

Enjolras still hasn’t replied, and Grantaire is expecting him to just turn tail and walk out of the library, leaving his Christmas holidays bereft.

Instead Enjolras shoves the mistletoe into his pocket, wiping his left hand down the outside of his robes, and with his right, reaches up to cup Grantaire’s face. 

“I wasn’t trying to poison you; I was trying to make a gesture.”

He looks determined and harsh, even as his hand is soft against Grantaire’s face. But his pale eyes are gentle, almost nervous, as though Enjolras could be nervous about anything. As though he had anything to be nervous about, he literally had Grantaire in the palm of his hand.

Grantaire can’t help himself, can’t help but break the silence with a smile.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

So he doesn’t. Enjolras’ lips are slow and sure, and Grantaire had never allowed himself to consciously imagine this, his unconscious is another matter entirely. But all that matters in the here and now is the fact that Enjolras is kissing him, is stroking his thumb across Grantaire’s jaw line, and Grantaire can’t tell if the noise coming out of the back of his throat is a growl or a mew, but Enjolras seems to like it, smiling into the kiss. 

When they break apart, which feels like hours later, but is only one breath away, Grantaire falls forward, resting his forehead against Enjolras’, eyes closed.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“I thought,” Enjolras swallows, and Grantaire can feel it, “I didn’t think you would take me seriously. So I thought a big gesture would help, Courfeyrac is always talking about romance in muggle films, I guess I hoped you’d find it endearing, I can’t believe I completely forgot about – I thought about every detail of your reaction except that one, I’m sorry.”

And Enjolras still sounds unsure, so Grantaire has no choice but to kiss him again. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. Luckily, the library is empty and remains so while the two of them get reacquainted as something more than friends.

Enjolras ends up perched on the desk, next to Grantaire, left hand still firmly holding his pocket shut, his right slotting against Grantaire’s fingers.

“You’re forgiven, just, next time; use your words, okay? I was worried for a moment there. But I feel very thoroughly wooed, trust me. And remember, no silver wedding rings.”

For a moment he’s worried that he’s gone too far, to be joking about commitment and his own death in the same sentence, but Enjolras only laughs, tucking himself into Grantaire’s side as though that’s where he’d always been. As though that was where he belonged.

“I promise.”

(The mistletoe doesn’t follow them out of the library after Enjolras tossed it into the bin at the doorway, instead staying where it was dropped, and Grantaire smiles. His smile doesn’t fade for the whole of the Christmas holidays, in which he spends more time that he’d thought appropriate in the Slytherin common room, and he’d never been more grateful at the early arrival of the full moon, for once giving him the entire break without interuption. None of their friends are surprised by this development when they all clamber from the train and find themselves met by the jubilant, hand holding couple. And, years in the future, the matching bands on their fingers are made of gold.)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [phantaire](phantaire.tumblr.com)
> 
> .


End file.
